


Eat My Royal Shorts

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst, Demon!Noctis, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, brotherhood era, mostly noctis-centric, where i dump my quick fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-05 05:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: A collection of my shorter fics that have no business being anywhere else. Additional tags and warnings in Notes.





	1. Cute But Blurry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, Prompto wears his glasses.
> 
> (Noctis, Prompto)

Prompto sits at the floor, his back against the foot of the leather couch, and taps his pencil against the notebook propped up against his legs. He stares at a particularly difficult calculus problem he had rewritten several times over, that particular patch of paper worn and gray from the constant abuse with eraser sheddings peppering the carpet, where he had pushed the shavings over. He scrunches his nose in concentration, trying to see the equation in a different light or hypothesizing where he went wrong. 

His mind draws up a blank, and the motion only slides the weight further down the bridge of his nose. With a frustrated huff, he pushes his glasses back up for the fifth time that night. 

Prompto hates his glasses. The consultant had recommended him the set, rectangular lenses set in a sturdy plastic red frame. They’re larger than Ignis’ own pair, but he'll admit he kind of liked the way they looked on him. Except, ever since he got his prescription contacts, he never went back. Until now. 

He thought he was set for another month before he had to order his next supply of contacts; but when he checked his medicine cabinet that morning, his last box was woefully missing. Prompto was thankful he knew where his spare glasses were stashed and for the miracle that he actually remembered where they were. But he forgot how uncomfortable the foreign weight was on his nose and how the edges of his frames were always in view, the center of his vision crisp and clear while his peripheries liked to blur. When he had first worn his glasses, it had taken him a week to get used to them, of adjusting his eyes to the sudden heavy prescription and the headaches, as well as getting the right fit so they would keep on his nose instead of constantly sliding down. 

And here, sitting on the floor of Noctis’ apartment while staring off at this math problem from hell, he's reminded of the week-long trial spent breaking in his new glasses. He hates how they still like to slip down his nose sometimes. He especially misses the perfect clarity his contacts gave him; the frames are  _ always _ at the edge of his vision, and there's dust and smudges on his lenses, and he doesn't even remember ever touching them. 

“I hate glasses,” Prompto groans, tossing his head back against the cushions of the couch. 

“Don't tell Specs, he'll get personally offended.”

Noctis walks in from the kitchen, one arm cradling a few bags of chips, the other a liter of off-brand soda he swears is better than the real thing. He unceremoniously drops the chips in Prompto's lap and right on top of his notebook, and places the soda bottle on the coffee table to unscrew the cap and fill up their empty cups. 

“Did Iggy ever mention why he never switched to contacts? Because, man, I cannot deal with all of… This.” Prompto gestures one hand to his face, while he uses the other to pick which chip bag he wants to call dibs on. 

“Not really. I think it's just less of a hassle, maybe? ‘Cause I've seen you put your contacts in, and watching you touch your eye like that icks me out.” Noctis makes a face at the memory, shuddering his shoulders for extra dramatics. 

“Eh, you get used to it. What I can't get used to is this feeling on my nose.”

“It can't be  _ that _ bad.”

As if it prove it, Noctis reaches over and plucks the glasses right from Prompto's face. He wears them, adjusting them behind his ears and on his nose. He instantly frowns, picks up a chip bag, and brings it close to his face. “Dude,” Noctis says, trying to read the nutrition label, “your eye sight is so bad. Dunno how I feel about you and guns now.”

“Hey!” Prompto squeaks, narrowing his eyes at Noctis. “I'm far-sighted for your information. I can shoot a killer bee from a mile away.”

“I bet.” Noctis puts the chip bag down and turns to smile at Prompto. “So how do I look?’

“Ehhhh.” Prompto leans in, one hand rubbing sagely at his chin as he examines the view, or what he can see of it at least. “Blurry. But cute.”

He cracks a sharp grin and moves in quick to steal a quick peck on the nose, and quite accurately despite his impaired vision. 

Noctis snorts a laugh, and he carefully removes the glasses before they accidentally get crushed underneath the onslaught of Prompto's butterfly kisses. 

Prompto rethinks his earlier distaste for his glasses, especially if they're able to grant him more moments like these, with his boyfriend’s soft laughter and bright eyes full of fondness. 


	2. All vs. No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis doesn't care for Bahamut and his stupid rules.
> 
> (Noctis, Ignis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From [ this dialogue prompt ](https://corvidprompts.tumblr.com/post/182808228649/i-am-x-the-all-seeing-oh-cool-im-y-the)

“I am Bahamut, the all-seeing!”

“Lovely. I am Ignis Scientia, the no-seeing.” He raises a hand from his crossed arms and passes it over his blind eyes. “Go hang yourself, Draconian.”

In any other circumstance, Noctis would roll onto his back and clutch his sides, desperate to keep himself from dying to laughter. But here, Ignis is facing off with the god himself, arms crossed in defiance and lips drawn into a tight line, bodily shielding Noctis from the gaze of Bahamut. He's so much smaller, a tiny mortal compared to a god, but he carries himself with strong-willed defiance, a stone wall before the Draconian's hurricane winds. And Noctis has to wonder how Ignis isn't shaking in his leather shoes, like he is in his combat boots. At this point he's more afraid for his suicidal-y loyal friend than he is for himself, that Bahamut may strike him down where he stands and everything Noctis fought through in Zegnautus to keep his friends safe would mean nothing. 

Bahamut roars at the insult — well, not roars, but his cold steel voice sounds like cannonshots here in this… Crystal space. Ignis somehow managed to catch up in time, shoving Ardyn aside as he desperately tried to keep the Crystal from swallowing Noctis, but got himself sucked in in the process. It should have only been the Chosen, should have been only his burden to carry; but of course, Ignis somehow was determined to share even that with him. 

Noctis ends up being a silent witness as the two trade scathing words with each other. Every time Bahamut opens his mouth, Ignis shoots back a quick-witted retort. Noctis thinks  _ this _ is when the Astral decides he's had enough, when his claws twitch and threaten to crush the both of them in his palm. But he never does, though Noctis knows his patience is being spread thin. 

Ignis doesn't relent and seems determined to make Bahamut eat his own prophecy for all he cares. He stands, unwavering and steadfast, beneath the oppressing gaze of Bahamut, and Noctis wonders just what he did to deserve Ignis. 

“It must be as foretold. The Chosen shall fulfill his destiny as is ordained —”

“To be frank, I don't give a damn. You and your Crystal can find some other victim, but you will  _ not _ turn Noctis into a martyr because you empty-headed gods could only cook up half-baked plans after failing to fix your own messes.” Ignis turns away from the seething gaze of Bahamut, the presence of a god an afterthought in the light of Noctis’ own safety and wellbeing. 

“Come, Noct. I'm sure the Draconian can make good use of the next ten years and change a few lines in his Prophecy,” he says, taking Noct by the hand and floating away from Bahamut's clutches.


	3. furthest from myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crystal only needed the Chosen, not ever Noctis.
> 
> (Noctis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no happy ending here, fam

He wonders if this is how his father felt. That for every second the Wall pulsed with magic, that for each Kingsgalive who used his borrowed power, Regis felt his very being crack and break off piece by piece.

There was the physical toll, the way his body systematically destroyed itself as he supplied his life to feed the Crystal, Noctis understood that. He knew that was how all the Lucian kings were destined to die, if they weren't assassinated first, and that was how Noctis would die. He was destined to watch his father wither away as a host to a parasite, mourn at his funeral, and take up the mantle of the throne and the burden of the Ring. The next in line to suffer the birthright.

Noctis was fully aware of the physical wear and tear, as well as the emotional and mental turmoil, while letting the Crystal eat him alive. 

He did not expect the way his soul fractured and split, however. Then again, there had been no precedent for the Chosen, so he believes himself a fool for even thinking he'd fit the norm of his kingly heritage. 

Because he's quite sure he's not supposed to be losing bits and pieces of himself like this, not supposed to feel  _ less _ like Noctis every time he calls upon the Ring's power. Sitting in  the dormitory within Zegnatus Keep, he feels listless, a bit hollow and empty, a shell of what he used to be only moments ago. What was once a burning rage is now a smoldering ember threatening to snuff itself out, and that fierce determination to bring Ardyn to justice for all the sins and pains he's brought upon them all is just… gone. That should scare him, anger him, or something, he knows. But it doesn't, and he can only think of it as a mild concern now. 

Ignis and Gladio leave him be, judging him to be worn and exhausted from all the stresses the Ring forces upon him. Prompto still seems distant and anxious after his rescue, still trying to convince himself that he's genuine and not some mass-produced machine. Maybe, Noctis would have found the silence and heavy air suffocating and unbearable, but right now he thinks nothing of it. He stares blankly at a wall. 

  
  


 

Noctis realizes why he feels so utterly empty, when he's cradled in the palm of the Draconian. The Crystal has been chipping away at him, taking whatever makes him  _ him, _ so that it's left with nothing but a perfectly hollow vessel to enter into Reflection, so that Providence can fill him with only what's necessary. The prophecy never needed Noctis, it just needed a Chosen King to bear the burdens of the Lucii and the gods’ covenants. The Crystal could mold whatever it needed out of him, throw his individuality by the wayside and keep the container. ‘Noctis’ probably took up too much precious space when it needed to cram all that holy power into him. 

He can't even feel bitter about it. 

When he awakes in Angelgard, Noctis has but one purpose: purge the Star and free the Accursed. It's a mantra in his head, a string of coding that makes up his sole programming. He sees his friends, and they greet him with happy tears and heartfelt hugs, emotions and gestures that are all foreign to him. And while he recognizes them, he can't understand them. He knows why they look so hurt, so broken and horrified when all Noctis does is return a blank stare as he recites the prophecy and what needs to be done, ignoring their attempts to reconnect and regain all that's been lost in those ten years. But he doesn't care for the sentiments; he's lost the capacity to. 

The only consolation he gives them is closure and the truth. 

“Your Noctis died ten years ago,” he says, looking them in the eyes — his own must look so empty. What came back was not their King, but simply a means to an end. 


	4. A Deal With The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis didn't actually mean to summon a demon, but he makes for pleasant company.
> 
> (Ignis, Noctis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a soft Demon AU, ahoy.

“Be a dear and rinse the scallions, please.”

Noctis lightly grunts and rises from the couch to pad into the kitchen, bare feet dragging across the carpet and onto the linoleum floor. He tugs open the fridge and leans down to pull at the crisper drawers, rummaging through the bagged vegetables in search of the scallions.

“Bottom left,” Ignis says, never turning away from the cutting board. He dices some carrots and puts them aside to the corner to start on the potatoes next. 

Noctis finds the scallions and brings them over to the sink, placing them in a colander to drain as he runs the tap water through them. He gives it a couple thunks against the sink for good measure, shaking out what water he can, and circles around behind Ignis, reaching over to place the colander to his left. He taps a nail against the countertop, where the bowl is placed, and stands on his tiptoes to see over Ignis’ shoulder. 

“What's cookin’?” he asks. 

“A stew.”

Ignis puts his knife down to bop Noctis’ nose, earning a gentle smack on his hip from a thin leather tail. It's small things like this that reminds Ignis his housemate isn't human. And as if to further cement that idea, he feels the tail lightly coil around his thigh, a soft gesture and a strange habit of Noctis that belies the quick and sharp whip it actually is. 

“Where's the meat?” Noctis asks, pulling away to check the pot. 

“It's a vegetable stew, Noct.”

“Ugh.”

Ignis smiles to himself, and he can  _ hear _ the grimace in his tone. He pictures a scrunched up nose, a pink tongue stuck out at the pot in disgust, furrowed brows knit together. He's not sure of the finer features, how the lines of his face move or the way his eyes crinkle, but he lets his imagination do the work for him. Sometimes he's curious of how Noctis truly looks, whether he looks as human as Ignis thinks him to be, or if there's more than a tail and two small nubs hidden beneath all that soft hair. 

“You're really not gonna put any meat in?” 

“I don't see why you're so adamant, considering you don't need to eat in the first place.” Ignis finishes the large chunks of potatoes, and puts his knife down to gather all the ingredients into a bowl. He's about to dump them when he hears the sound of ceramic scrape against the countertop, and his gut feeling tells him to  _ not _ drop the chopped vegetables where he thinks the bowl should be. 

“Noct,” he sighs. 

“Ignis.”

_ “Noct.” _

“Ignis.”

“Give me back the bowl, please.”

“Only if you make beef stew.”

“Honestly, Noctis. You're incorrigible sometimes.” 

“So beef stew?” 

Ignis sometimes wonders why he agreed to the contract in the first place. It wasn't even his idea or his intention. If only Prompto learned to clean up his messes whenever he came over, none of this would have happened. And why the blonde had a sudden interest in the occult and supernatural entirely escaped Ignis. He was fumbling across the living room floor, trying to figure what the book and some… board was doing there, when he accidentally cut his finger on the edge of something sharp. 

Turned out, Prompto was one drop of blood away from summoning his very own demon, and Ignis ended up the contractor. He could have rejected the offer, but one too many glasses of wine clouded his judgment, and he was a bit convinced that it all was a dream. But the next morning proved him wrong, when he was woken up by something cold and leathery tickling across his cheek — Noctis’ tail, he later learned. 

“Beef stew,” Ignis says, just a tad exasperated, “but only if you agree to try this tofu curry I've been meaning to make.”

“Is it that stinky tofu?” 

“Beef stew or no, Noctis.”

“Ugh. Fine. I'll eat your gross tofu.” Noctis slides the bowl back onto the countertop, precisely where Ignis left it in the first place. “But only because I like you,” he grumbles, giving a quick peck to Ignis’ cheek. 

“I'm honored to know your affections for me are a tier above your love for meats.” Ignis finally puts the vegetables into the bowl, and he feels around for the colander and scallions. Behind him, he hears the fridge door open again and the unmistakable sound of styrofoam and plastic wrap. “You'll have to prepare them first. Those cuts weren't meant for stew.”

“Got it. Where's the other cutting board?”

“Under the sink. Give it a rinse before you use it.”

But it's these moments that ask Ignis, ‘Would you have it any other way?’ and he replies with a firm ‘No.’ Summoning an otherworldly creature and binding his soul to him had never been in his list of goals, but neither was losing his vision. But he had learned to live with his blindness, adapt and overcome it, and he did the same once he realized he practically sold his soul to a demon. He had expected the same troubles and hurdles, but not the companionship and fondness that bloomed from it all.

When they settle down on the couch to let the stew simmer, Noctis urges him to lay across the cushions to perch his head across the demon's lap. The couch is a bit short for him to sprawl his full length across it, and he dangles his calves over one end of the couch, but it's a comfortable position, especially as Noctis cards his hand through his hair. He hears the rustle of paper and the turn of pages, and he tips his chin up in response. “Read to me?” 

“Duh,” Noctis says, tone soft and fond. His left hand keeps the book, his other combing through Ignis’ loose bangs. “Are you sure you don't want to ask for your eyesight back?” he suddenly asks, fingers gently caressing those closed eyelids. 

“Perhaps I may change my mind in the future, considering how you keep asking. But for now, I'm sure.” Ignis reaches a hand up to grab at those slender fingers, to bring them down to his lips and kiss his knuckles. “Ever since you've gotten rid of most of the scarring, the ladies down the street won't stop asking who my plastic surgeon is. Imagine if my vision suddenly returned. I'd rather not be the talk of the neighborhood.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Just, maybe you'd get tired of hearing my voice all the time when you could read all these books yourself.”

“Perhaps I bought all these books just so I could hear your voice.”

Noctis goes quiet, and Ignis can feel him fidget from underneath. But Ignis only smiles, knowing this soft silence means the demon is trying to hide his blush and embarrassment. Sometimes, he can't help but tease. Noctis makes for an endearing paradox, a soul-stealing demon who closes up like a timid flower at the silliest of flirts and compliments. 

Noctis clears his throat and flips through the book, searching for where they last left off. “Um, anyway, uh… Chapter nine. The prince and his knights are at Ladissia, ready to talk to the queen about waking up some old god… Blah, blah, blah. Summoning circle, ocean altar — yep, read that part already — oh, here it is.”

Ignis listens to the silvery voice and feels the vibrations of his words, and he lets himself fall into the fantasy world Noctis conjures up for him. 


	5. At Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find each other in the twilight — when the Night waits for its Dawn, and Day for its Dusk.
> 
> [Ignis/Noctis, Prompto/Gladio]

Noctis sits at the edge, in a plane parallel to Eos and her humans, but in a reality wholly distinct from the Astrals and their territories. He dangles his bare feet over the mirror of the dark world below, his toes occasionally catching the surface and sending ripples across the pool of quicksilver. He dips his hands into the lake, scoops up a handful of glittering stars, each pulsing with varying strengths and shades of light, and tosses them into the air, where they hang in the dark void to rest during the oncoming Dawn. He counts each one, accounts for every little speck as a parent does for their children, all precious and entirely special in their own rights.

Noctis makes to pick at the remaining stars, when he feels a warmth like the sun press against his back, a pair of golden hands snaking down his arms to clasp at his hands and entwine their fingers. He's a pale blue, almost white, and he never fails to marvel at the contrast they make; his cool skin warming to the ever-blazing touch of his sun.

“My moon, my darling Night.” Ignis murmurs sweet whispers into the crown of Noctis’ hair, that shimmers and dances with starlight and moondust. He leaves sunspots where his lips roam over, touches of gold and bronze to paint over Noctis’ blue and silver.

Noctis tips his head to the side, allowing Ignis to pepper kisses down his neck until his ice blue skin takes on soft pinks and warm oranges. Allowing Dawn to color the sky with his palette, to take on Night's mantle until twilight arrived once again. Noctis pulls on his veil he casted over Eos, while Ignis pulls him into his arms for the short time they have. He turns his entire body to meet Ignis’ blazing gaze, to melt in his warm embrace and savor the scent of the morning's first sunlight. In the distance, he hears the world rouse itself into life, waking themselves from their slumber — sleepy yawns and whispered grumbles, sharp birdsongs and roars of beasts.

“My sun, my only Dawn.” Noctis hooks his arms around Ignis’ shoulders, and his fingers gently play with the soft hair at the other's neck. No doubt his fingers will be stained with golden light and sunshine, just as every other part of him that's been touched by the Dawn. And he'd have it no other way, and he tips his head back to stain his lips with that same fiery glow. He tastes honey and wine and warm fire.

The kiss is soft and languid, as they seek to savor this small window of time they have with one another, as the Night slowly gives way to the Dawn that paints Eos with his warmth. They keep to each other's arms for as long as they dare to stretch the seconds between them. But Eos needs her sun just as much as she needs her moon, and her people must work as they do sleep. So Noctis sighs against Ignis’ lips and wraps the Night's gossamer veil around himself, so that Ignis can place his own cloak across Eos and fill her skies with light and beaming rays.

“Until tomorrow, love.”

Noctis carries with him the proof on his skin and in his hair, as he retreats into his domain of the Lunar Court, where no doubt Gladio is wondering what the delay is about. But he knows, they all know. How they love each other so fiercely to relinquish their hold upon the world, so that the Sun can shine its full radiance, so that the Moon can offer its soft glow.

  
  


 

When time ticks its impatient hands across the clock, Ignis passes on his mantle to Prompto and retires into his Solar Court, and Dawn waxes into Day. The soft pastels of the morning dip into a crisp blue, but the sun blazes as strong as the gold-edged freckles across Prompto's skin. He's truly sun-kissed, as blazing 0light dances across his face and spins its threads into his hair. Laying on his stomach, he picks out a few wads of cotton and tosses them down into the sky, watches the clouds lazily float across the mirror lake of Eos. He looks up to the stars Noctis shelved, and wonders if he'd notice a few missing. Maybe he could throw in a star or two into the sky; the sun shines bright enough, no one would notice a couple tiny stars against the bright blue.

Just when his fingers brush against the tiny lights, a larger hand wraps around his, pulling him away from the stars. He's lifted onto his feet easily enough and is spent spinning in a twirl right into Dusk, where cool arms wrap themselves around his waist.

Prompto splays his fingers across Gladiolus’ chest, where his eyes trace the starlight etched into his darkened skin — miniature constellations that make up massive feathers and sharp talons. When he lifts his hand, he leaves behind a glowing print of soft gold and baby blues.

“What did Noct say about touching his stars?” Gladio murmurs into the sunrays woven around Prompto's hair. The sunlight tickles, but they warm his lips up quite nicely. Today, he thinks he smells a picnic. A checkered blanket set across fresh soft grass, a sweet spring breeze and the soft warmth of daylight, crisp air with hints of early blossoms mixed with the hidden contents of the woven basket.

“To quote, ‘Don't even think about it,’ right?” Prompto traces a finger along one of the constellations tattooed onto Gladio's skin. He prods at one of the larger stars, shifting it out of place and sliding it a few centimeters to the left. It crawls right back to its original spot, though, once he lifts his finger.

“And you thought about it.”

“Yep.”

“And how are we going to fix that?”

Prompto pulls away just enough to tilt his head and look up at Gladio. “Well, right now I'm thinking, ‘Where's my evening kiss?’ So. Yeah,” he hums, lightly tugging at the man's long locks, staining them with yellow shimmer, ”Get down here, big guy.”

Gladio breathes out a laugh, and he leans down while Prompto stands on his tiptoes to meet him halfway. They brush their foreheads together first, melting their hues together and mixing the lights and darks of their skin. Gladio paints over the sweet blues of Day with the dark navy of Dusk, takes the clouds and splashes the sunset across them.

When Prompto finds their lips, he loses himself in the soothing darkness, lets the sun dip into the horizon as shadows spread from Gladio's fingertips. He blindly feels his hands around arms and chest, where the cool evening air becomes the balm to sun-scorched skin. He barely notices the warmth that wraps around his shoulders, and he realizes Gladio must have picked up the mantle and wrapped it around him.

“Stick around a little longer?” Gladio asks, placing a small kiss on Prompto's shoulder.

“Noct's gonna complain.”

“Nah, he was late earlier too. So it's just fair.”

“Well, only if you let me put up that Judge constellation,” he hums, twirling a lock of Gladio's hair around his finger.

“Mmh, deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lunar Court: Noctis as Night (duh), Gladio as Dusk  
> Solar Court: Ignis as Dawn, Prompto as Day


End file.
